


petal-pink

by Thealmostrhetoricalquestion



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Hair Dyeing, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Hogwarts Sixth Year, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:21:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23466064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion/pseuds/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion
Summary: In the middle of the night, some of the Slytherin Sixth Years swap Albus Potter’s shampoo out for hair dye. Pink hair dye. The consequences of this prank knock very politely on the window into Scorpius’s whirring brain, and, when he refuses to lift the latch, they proceed to batter it down and force him to face the truth.Albus Potter is extremely pretty, and Scorpius is a fool for not paying more attention to this fact.
Relationships: Scorpius Malfoy/Albus Severus Potter
Comments: 43
Kudos: 439





	petal-pink

**Author's Note:**

> this has absolutely no substance, thank you for attending anyway

“Stop staring.”

Scorpius jerks rather violently, slopping cereal all over the page of a borrowed library book. He lifts it in dismay and makes noises about not knowing how to clean it, even though he does. But he needs the distraction. He needs something to look at that isn’t his best friends’ face.

“Merlin’s pants, _fine,”_ Albus groans, putting down his mullered toast and picking up his wand. “Don’t know why you can’t do it yourself.” 

This wand is smooth, perfectly polished, and untainted. It looks comfortable in Albus’s grip, as though he’s finally found the confidence to hold it like he owns it. When he waves it, there is a sucking sensation in the air, and the milk lifts from the page with gentle popping sounds. It is a lovely display of very strange magic. 

“I could have done that,” Scorpius mutters. 

Albus fixes him with an incredulous look, and Scorpius hastens to add, “I mean, thank you. Thank you, Albus. I’m very appreciative. And I wasn’t staring, I just… you had something, there, on your cheek. Toast crumbs.”

To his credit, Albus doesn’t argue, even though Scorpius started staring from the very minute that Albus stumbled out of the bathroom that morning in a cloud of pinkish steam, swearing viciously and clutching his curls. There was no toast present at the time. The presence of Albus and his tanned skin and his very few freckles that he didn't usually let anyone see, wrapped in only a thick fluffy towel—well, that would have been enough to excuse the staring, in Scorpius’s opinion. 

The fact that his hair was also a perfect, pale pink, only added to the picture. 

Albus doesn’t argue, but he does give Scorpius a very knowing look. He swipes the back of his hand lazily against his cheek, one eyebrow cocked, and deadpans, “Did I get them? These toast crumbs that you absolutely weren’t staring at, I mean. Are they gone?”

He isn’t even trying to be sincere, or act like he believes Scorpius. Just for that, Scorpius spells several toast crumbs to stick to his left eyebrow, and only feels the tiniest ounce of regret when Frank Jr points it out on the way to class.

* * *

“Oh,” says Professor Longbottom, doing a double-take as they step into Greenhouse Six, following the rest of the class into the damp heat. “Al. Trying something new?”

Albus brushes his hand furtively through his hair, ruffling the curls nearest the front. “Uh, something like that. It shouldn’t last too long.”

His expression is so very unsure, and it makes something in Scorpius’s chest tighten efficiently. He wants to tell Albus that he looks so _pretty_ like this, that he always does, and this only emphasises it. Instead, he tightens his grip on his messenger bag, and avoids looking at Albus’s hair. 

“It’s nice.” Professor Longbottom’s face softens. He has very kind eyes, Scorpius has always thought, and now they linger on the petal-pink roots, and crinkle when he smiles. “If you want to give me a list of names, I’ll do something about it. Sometimes pranks get out of hand, and they might look harmless on the outside, but they don't feel that way on the inside. Hmm?”

Albus flashes him a small, vaguely uncomfortable smile. “Think it’ll be alright, but thanks, Professor. Are we in pairs today?”

Professor Longbottom laughs lightly, and gestures for them to find a seat. “Far be it for me to seperate the two of you. Everyone fetch a pair of gloves, please! We’ll be starting as soon as I put these pots away.”

The gloves are in a pile in the middle of the front row. Scorpius puts his bag down on a chair, unbuttoning his outer robe to combat the stifling heat, and by the time he joins Albus near the gloves, there are only two pairs left. A plain brown pair… and a pastel pink pair. 

Albus’s face is oddly blank. 

Someone snickers from the back of the class. It makes something twist in his stomach, something vicious and vile. Scorpius snatches up both pairs of gloves and makes his way back to their seats, ignoring the way Albus hisses his name, scampering after him. 

Professor Longbottom diverts all the attention by starting the lesson his usual way; knocking over a watering can and laughing about it. 

“Scorp, give me the gloves,” Albus mutters, leaning close on his rickety stool. 

“Okay,” Scorpius says quickly, pushing the brown leather gloves into Albus’s chest. He takes them automatically, mouth falling open in surprise and indignation, but Scorpius snatches up the pink ones before he can protest and says, “These ones are mine.”

“You don't have to do that,” Albus says. “I can wear pink gloves, it’s not a big deal. You know they did it on purpose, and I don't need you to do… whatever this is. I can handle it. It’s just a colour.”

“Exactly. And I like the colour,” Scorpius insists, tugging the gloves on. “It’s a very pretty colour.”

Albus flushes from his jaw to the roots of his hair, until he’s a faint pinkish colour all over. It’s mesmerising. He looks somewhat harassed, staring from the gloves to Scorpius’s face, and Scorpius can see him making connections and coming up with questions, but he doesn’t ask anything. And Scorpius doesn’t take it back. 

Pink is a pretty colour, and it looks even prettier on Albus Potter. 

“Whatever,” Albus says eventually, trying to sound blithely unconcerned, but he doesn’t stop sneaking glances at Scorpius’s hands for the rest of Herbology.

* * *

Scorpius is knee-deep in a book about medieval medicine, a spoonful of carrot and ginger soup suspended near his mouth, when he hears his name called across the Great Hall. Dinner is in full-swing, but it doesn’t take long to spot the head of pink hair ducking and weaving towards him. A few people point and giggle, but there are more than a few admiring looks too. Some girls on the Hufflepuff table huddle close and whisper, blushing.

Scorpius tries very hard not to glare, but something tells him that he’s unsuccessful. 

“Hey,” Albus says, coming out of the thinning crowd and nudging his shoulder. “I have to send a letter. Come with me?”

“You have to ask?” Scorpius puts his soup spoon down, narrowly avoiding a lapful of soup, and gathers up his things. “You know, I was reading about leeches and their uses in the Muggle medical environment. It’s really quite fascinating, you should let me read it to you later.”

“I can read for myself, you know,” Albus mumbles, but it’s just noise at this point. 

Albus protests every single time that he doesn’t need reading to, like a _child,_ and then he settles down the minute Scorpius sneaks through the curtains around his bed, brandishing a new book. 

Sometimes Scorpius reads Potions journals, and sometimes he reads Muggle science-fiction novels, which are just baffling on all accounts, but usually he reads fairy-tales. Albus likes those. It’s one of the only things that helps him sleep without nightmares. Scorpius doesn’t understand why the stories help, or if it’s something to do with his voice, but he won’t allow Albus to feel ashamed because of it. 

The walk to the Owlery is quiet, though Scorpius talks for most of it. He keeps his volume down low though, basking in the sunshine that pours in through every arched window they pass. It leaves honeyed patches on the ground. It bathes the corridors in luminescent dust, an illusion of a snowstorm. It butters the pink locks of Albus’s hair. 

Outside, the air is still warm and smells of cut grass, of summer. Scorpius breathes it in and cuts off his talking, until Albus prompts him with another question, sticking close, and then he’s off again. 

“Who’s the letter for?” Scorpius asks, when they reach the Owlery and push back the huge oak door. 

Immediately, he’s met with soft hooting and the rustling of hundreds of feathers. 

Albus pushes a hand through his hair, ruffling it all up. Scorpius feels his fingers twitch. He wants, almost desperately, to push his own hands through Albus’s hair and tangle them at the roots. 

“It’s for my dad,” Albus says, sounding hesitant. “Thought I’d try writing him a letter first, this year. I’m trying, you know?”

The well of pride in Scorpius’s chest only grows deeper the longer he knows this boy. There’s affection there too, and fondness, and the faintest exasperation, but in general, Scorpius finds himself more or less in awe of Albus. It always takes him by surprise that Albus wants to hang out with him. That he wants to be by his side. 

“I know,” Scorpius says, dropping his bag down by the wall. “Come on, then. Let’s find the perfect owl.”

“It can be any old owl, Scorp.”

“You’re putting a damper on my quest-like cravings.”

Albus laughs softly, and really, that’s too much. It’s not that Albus doesn’t laugh; he’s actually very full of humour, and very funny, in a dry sort of way that Scorpius doesn’t always understand. But he doesn’t usually laugh so softly, standing in the gaze of the summer sun, with his lower lip caught between his teeth and pink in his hair. 

“You know,” Scorpius says, distantly aware that he’s about to regret this moment, “you really are extraordinarily lovely.”

Albus fumbles the strap of his shoulder bag. It falls to the floor with a soft thump, sending up flurries of thin feathers. He stares at Scorpius, unmoving. The regret doesn’t rush in straight away, but Scorpius can feel it curling at the very edges of his nervous system, which has free reign of his body. 

“What?” Albus says. “Sorry, _what?”_

“I said—”

“I know what you said. Christ, Scorp.” Albus rakes a hand through his hair far less gently than before. “You can’t just say stuff like that. I know it’s—the hair thing, right? That’s why you’re saying stuff like that? Because you’ve got some kind of weird hair colour kink… is that even a thing? It must be a thing.”

“Albus,” Scorpius interrupts softly, but his voice goes unheard. 

“And you’ve never said anything like this before, so it can only be because of something new, and it’s just the hair that’s changed. It’s not like I’d mind if you—you know, and we don't talk about it, but I know that _you_ know how I feel, but that’s…”

Scorpius moves away from the wall quite abruptly, and Albus shifts backwards as well. He doesn’t look nervous, or scared, which is a relief. But he does look resigned. As though he knows exactly how Scorpius feels despite not letting him get a word in edgeways, when usually it’s the reverse. 

“It’s nice to hear you talk this much,” Scorpius says, since he’s in the business of being honest this evening. “I only wish you weren’t talking such utter rubbish.”

Albus looks up, blinking owlishly, his hand still caught in his hair. 

“I like your pink hair,” Scorpius says, stepping closer with a smile. “It reminds me of cherry blossoms, and you do look pretty because it _suits_ you. But I also like your normal hair. I like you, Albus, no matter what you look like. Even if you shaved it all off, or grew a mullet, I would still like you.” 

“Oh,” Albus says. 

Scorpius waves a hand. “Or if you grew three extra limbs or something. Or a moustache, like Professor Flitwick.”

“Yes, okay, I think I get it.”

“Or if you decided to actually dress like you knew what fashion was—I mean, I think the shock might kill me, but I’d get used to it—”

Suddenly there’s a hand over his mouth, and Scorpius finds himself laughing at Albus’s very unimpressed expression from quite close up. They’ve not really been this close up before. Not for no reason, anyway. 

God, Scorpius hopes there’s a reason. 

“You made your point,” Albus says, scowling. “Now it’s my turn to make one, you giant dork.”

“That was quite a good line, for you,” Scorpius says, his voice muffled by Albus’s hand, and then Albus’s scowl, as he leans in to kiss him. 

The owls take up a chorus of hoots and soft trills, as though in celebration. Scorpius barely hears it, too busy winding his fingers in soft, blossom-pink hair and kissing his best friend senseless. It’s breath-taking. It makes his heart pound, and he feels weightless, like he could fly. Albus is warm and yielding under his tentative hands. Scorpius draws back long enough to say, “I’m sorry if I taste like soup,” before diving back in again, tasting laughter on his tongue. 

Later, when their mouths are as pink as Albus’s hair, and the letter is no more than a smear on the horizon, like a distant splattered bug, Scorpius winds a lock of his own, platinum blond hair around his index finger. His other hand is busy holding Albus close. 

“How about it, then? If you can pull off pink, maybe I can try something new. Pink, or maybe blue, d’you think?”

Albus blinks once, twice, staring up at Scorpius’s hair, and then down to his mouth. He swallows thickly and catches Scorpius’s gaze, and there is something thrilling in his gaze. Scorpius laughs under his breath, and lets himself be pulled even closer. 

“Alright,” Albus says lowly. “Maybe you had more than one point.”

“Not going to make fun of me for staring, now?”

“So you admit that you were staring.”

“Of course I was staring! Your hair is pink, and you look so pretty.”

Flustered, Albus kisses him again, their journey out of the Owlery waylaid for a cause that Scorpius can one-hundred-percent support. While they let themselves get distracted, the sunlight fades and dusk arrives, pinkish and new.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed!! thank you so much for reading, feel free to say hello below!! <3
> 
> (i know it needs editing, I'll get to it tomorrow! :)


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